


Saturday

by Elvendork



Series: Their Own Side [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Hogwarts AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthony insists it’s too cold for a trip to Hogsmead; Aziraphale makes it worth his while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cissy88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cissy88/gifts).



> The product of my first ever participation in the Good Omens Holiday Exchange. Original prompt by [Cissy88](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cissy88/pseuds/Cissy88/) (cissyswonderland (main blog) / fluffmidas (art blog) on tumblr), to whom I am eternally grateful because this was _so much fun_. 
> 
> The prompt was: "Aziraphale/Crowley, Hogwarts AU (are there ever enough of these?) Crowley's family is heavily involved in the dark arts and Aziraphale's is composed almost completely of Aurors. Since the beginning they both wanted nothing do do with their family and everything to do with each other. "
> 
> This will eventually form part of a series, which will actually begin in Crowley and Aziraphale's first year, but long story short although 6000+ words of the beginning are already written, there was no chance I would be able to finish it in time for submitting, especially as the original plan was snapshots of their previous years, culminating in this, all in one ready for the Exchange. Those 6000+ words don't even cover their first lessons, so that didn't happen. So I'm uploading out of order, but it should still make sense.
> 
> Just in case, some context: **Aziraphale and Crowley are both sixteen years old and in fifth year. They met on the train in first year. This story takes place within the Potterverse canon timeline in December 1981, i.e. about six weeks after Voldemort’s disappearance.**

‘It’s not _that_ cold,’ says Aziraphale by way of greeting, struggling not to laugh as Anthony emerges into the Entrance Hall wearing what looks like every layer of clothing he owns.

‘Good morning to you too,’ Anthony replies moodily. ‘And for your information, it’s _freezing_. Literally. There’s about five feet of snow outside.’

‘I think you might be exaggerating just a little bit.’

‘I am not. It’s a blizzard out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they cancelled the trip.’

‘It’s barely snowing.’

‘Funny, I thought that’s what they called it when that white stuff came out of the sky and _covered everything in a layer of solid ice_.’

‘Snow and ice are not the same thing.’

‘Close enough. They might as well be. They’re both _cold_.’

‘It’s December.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘So it’s _supposed_ to be cold.’

‘Nothing should ever be this cold. And stop laughing at me.’

‘I’m not laughing,’ Aziraphale insists. Anthony glowers at him, unconvinced.

‘Oh alright, I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale sighs, ‘we don’t have to go. Would you like to just stay here?’

‘I got up especially for this; you’re not getting out if that easily.’

‘I’m not the one complaining about it.’

‘Let’s just go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get back.’

‘Whatever you say, dear,’ Aziraphale smirks, chuckling as he follows Anthony out into the grounds, which are indeed covered in a thick blanket of snow – albeit considerably less than five feet deep. Anthony shivers pointedly and draws his cloak more tightly around himself, burrowing his chin into his scarf and glaring at anything and everything in his path. He fails spectacularly at looking even slightly menacing, but Aziraphale thinks it’s probably best not to mention that.

As they reach the great iron gates alongside the stream of other students on their way to Hogsmead for the last visit of term, they both pause automatically to wait for the customary security search. So do several others, before realising the practise is no longer necessary and continuing with sheepish grins.

‘I just can’t get used to it,’ says Aziraphale, glancing over his shoulder at the gates. Filch is there, checking names against the list of those allowed into the village, but there is not a Secrecy Sensor in sight.

‘Let’s hope it lasts long enough that we’ll need to,’ Anthony replies darkly.

‘Don’t you think it will?’

‘I don’t know,’ Anthony shrugs, deliberately scuffing his toes on the ground and kicking the already trampled snow into little piles as he walks. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale, and his hands are stuffed deep into his pockets. ‘I mean, no one actually knows what _happened_. He could still be out there for all we know.’

‘Don’t you think he’d have shown himself by now? It’s been over a month.’

‘Not if he’s weakened, or planning something he needs stealth for. He could be faking for all we know. And even if he’s not…You should read my parents’ letters. He might have been their leader, but sometimes I think they could actually be more dangerous without him than they were before. They’re disorganised now. Desperate.’

‘I wish we knew for sure,’ says Aziraphale, stopping to wait for an empty carriage.

‘You and me both,’ Anthony replies. A carriage pulls up just in front of them, and he clambers into it. It’s no warmer inside than out, but he’s too preoccupied now to bother complaining. The carriage sets off as soon as Aziraphale settles into the opposite seat, for which Anthony is grateful. He’s not in the mood to talk to anyone else at the moment. Aziraphale watches him; Anthony watches the window.

‘You’re welcome to come to mine for Christmas, you know,’ Aziraphale prompts after several minutes.

‘Yeah, right,’ Anthony scoffs, ‘I bet your parents would be dead pleased with that.’

‘Well – we’ll stay here then, both of us.’

‘Again; parents.’

‘You don’t _want_ to go back to yours for the holidays, do you?’ Aziraphale’s voice is disbelieving. Anthony wonders if he should be offended, then decides he hasn’t the energy.

‘Not really, but I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s only a couple of weeks. I’ll manage.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to,’ says Aziraphale sincerely.

‘To be fair I don’t think yours is going to be a bundle of laughs, either.’

‘But they _won_ ,’ Aziraphale argues a little desperately, ‘if they’re not happy now, when will they be?’

‘I honestly don’t know, Aziraphale,’ Anthony throws up his hands in frustration. You Know Who has been gone – vanished without trace – for almost six weeks now, and still his presence haunts their every waking moment. _Still_ they can’t get out from under the shadow of their parents’ war. He is sick of it. He’s been sick of it for as long as he can remember.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t – let’s talk about something else.’

‘Right,’ says Anthony, and casts around for a new topic. ‘So what do you want for Christmas then?’

By the time they reach the village Anthony’s mood is much improved. He even forgets to scowl at the snow as he hops down from the carriage, still laughing at Aziraphale’s last joke. Hogsmead is always picturesque, but particularly so at the moment. Every shop window is augmented with Christmas decorations ranging from beautifully delicate to supremely tacky and garish. Jaunty music drifts across the street from The Three Broomsticks and mingles with the shouts of a group of third years racing past in the midst of a fierce snowball fight. Anthony can smell roasting chestnuts from somewhere.

Aziraphale steps down from the carriage, pudgy cheeks already rosy from the cold, and the snowflakes instantly begin to settle into his windswept hair. He smiles brightly and with an undercurrent of mischief that probably only Anthony would recognise. Anthony’s insides twist at the sight, but he blinks and looks away before Aziraphale notices.

‘Where to first?’ Aziraphale asks, tugging his cloak until it is almost straight. Anthony rolls his eyes and takes over until it is _actually_ straight, then glances around thoughtfully.

‘Honeydukes?’

‘Ooh, yes, I can get my Mum her Christmas present,’ says Aziraphale eagerly, ducking a passing snowball and setting off in the appropriate direction. Anthony hurries to follow.

‘One day you’re going to buy that woman something other than chocolate and she’s going to die of shock.’

‘She _likes_ chocolate.’

‘So do I, but you never buy me any.’

‘You eat enough of it already,’ Aziraphale teases.

‘Hark who’s talking.’

‘Watch it, or you won’t get _anything_ from me this year.’

‘In that case, likewise.’

They are both smiling again as they push their way into Honeydukes, which is at once blessedly warm and immensely crowded and noisy. They have to squeeze through swathes of black-cloaked, snow-flecked Hogwarts students to reach any of the shelves and conversation is practically impossible. Anthony gives up trying to speak and simply follows Aziraphale as best he can, leaning close every so often in an attempt and catch the vague drift of what his friend is saying. It is mostly exclamations of delight or dismay and snippets of thought he doesn’t seem to realise he is voicing aloud; nothing that requires a reply, at any rate. Anthony is free to think.

He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. It strikes him that there is probably no one else on the planet for whom he would suffer being dragged around _anywhere_ in sub-zero temperatures, battling through blizzards and snow-drifts along the way, just to help them pick out a cheap Christmas present for a woman who looks at him like an she’s found an inside-out flobberworm in the middle of her dinner. Perhaps the strangest part of the whole experience is – _he doesn’t mind_. He would (not that he would ever admit it) much rather be here, with Aziraphale, than back at the warm, quiet castle, alone. This is all to say nothing of the twisting, giddy feeling he is getting increasingly often whenever Aziraphale smiles, or looks at him – or speaks, or breathes, or mostly just exists in Anthony’s general vicinity. He’s not an idiot; he knows perfectly well what that feeling means, although he’s pretty sure that acting on it would be one of the most moronic things he has ever done in his life.

He is seriously considering it.

His parents would kill him. _Aziraphale’s_ parents would definitely kill him.

He wonders what Aziraphale would do.

‘What about this?’ asks Aziraphale, holding up an elaborately beribboned box containing, apparently, a multitude of flavoured chocolates. ‘It’s something different, don’t you think?’

‘If you want something different, how about you try something from a shop _other_ than this one?’

‘I’m being serious, Anthony.’

‘So am I.’ Aziraphale glares. ‘Fine, you want my honest opinion?’ They are pushed momentarily together as a large seventh year edges past and Aziraphale waits until they are a respectable distance apart again before speaking. Anthony wonders vaguely if he is imagining the redness of Aziraphale’s cheeks, or if the colour is still lingering from the cold outside.

‘I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’

‘Alright then, my honest opinion is this: I don’t care. Your Mum won’t care. Or maybe she will, I don’t know. But _I_ don’t. I barely know her, I certainly don’t like her, and quite frankly I’m sick of thinking about her, okay?’ It comes out sharper than he intended, and Aziraphale looks momentarily taken aback.

‘Well, my apologies,’ he replies frostily. ‘If I’d known you objected so much to this trip I would have come on my own.’

‘Oh, look –’ with a growl of impatience, Anthony is forced to move out of the way once more, this time for a gaggle of fourth years who look much younger than he felt a year ago. ‘I’m sorry, alright? But honestly, I really, _really_ don’t want to be thinking about your family right now. Or mine. Or…anything. Can’t we just have one day where we don’t have to worry about them for a change?’

Aziraphale frowns, partly in irritation and partly in concern. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, trying and failing to make eye contact with his friend.

‘I’m fine. Just – oh, I’ll meet you outside, okay? It’s too crowded in here.’

With that, he pushes away from Aziraphale through the mass of other customers and makes his way to the door. Once outside he folds his arms, leans back against the wall, and scowls at the on-going snowball fight. He isn’t sure why it all came out like that, or why his good mood has vanished as quickly as it came. He hadn’t been planning on saying any of it, although he doesn’t regret it now that he has. Aziraphale seems to have some misguided idea that just because the war is over now – theoretically – so is all the enmity that came with it, as though somehow all the simmering resentments that have been building for years have been washed away. Anthony doesn’t know if Aziraphale actually _believes_ any of that, but he has certainly been acting like he does.

Nothing has really changed. They might not be officially at war anymore, but their families are still at opposite and extreme ends of the whole issue that had _started_ the fighting, and it doesn’t look like that will be changing any time soon.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Aziraphale’s voice interrupts him much sooner than he expects it to.

‘Please, they’re worth far more than that,’ Anthony pushes himself away from the wall, straightening up and pasting a bored expression onto his face. They fall into step beside each other as they move away from the sweet shop, not heading for anywhere in particular.

‘Here,’ Aziraphale says, handing Anthony an enormous bar of Honeydukes finest. ‘Now you can’t say I never buy you chocolate.’

To his horror, Anthony finds the urge to cry battling with the urge to laugh. He snorts with amusement and shakes his head, hoping Aziraphale takes his blinking for a reaction to the icy wind.

‘This doesn’t mean you’re getting a Christmas present. You can’t buy my forgiveness that easily.’

Aziraphale sighs wearily, ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I was joking. You’re forgiven.’ Anthony casts a sidelong glance at Aziraphale, tucking the chocolate into his pocket without unwrapping it. ‘Seriously, I’m not that angry. I was just frustrated.’

‘Every conversation we have at the moment ends in one of us mentioning either You Know Who or our families, one of us getting angry, and one of us apologising.’

‘Alright,’ says Anthony easily, ‘I’ll stop apologising if you will.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know what you meant. I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘You know _I_ trust you, don’t you?’

‘I know.’

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

‘If I’m ever not, you’ll be the first to know.’

They fall into a comfortable silence, still ambling side by side with no clear destination in mind. It’s odd, thinks Aziraphale; with anyone else he’d likely still be scrambling to explain himself right now, or demanding an explanation from them. He doesn’t need to with Anthony. They have been nigh-on inseparable for over four years; they know each other too well for it to be necessary.

‘Aziraphale, I have a question,’ says Anthony suddenly. His tone is deadly serious.

‘Yes?’

‘If a dragon and a manticore got into a fight, which do you think would win?’

Aziraphale looks thoughtful.

‘That depends. What kind of dragon are we talking about?’

00000

Twenty minutes later, as they reach the outskirts of the village, they are still debating the question.

‘Dragons breathe _fire_ , though. And they’re _bigger_ ,’ Aziraphale insists, for perhaps the tenth time.

‘A manticore could kill you instantly with a single sting _and_ they’re immune to just about every spell you could think of,’ Anthony counters as they come to a halt by a snow-laden wooden fence. He leans tentatively against one of the upright posts, silently thanking his many layers of clothing for the scant protection from wet snow.

‘Yes, but a dragon wouldn’t be _using_ spells, and they don’t use a manticore to guard the vaults at Gringotts, do they?’ Aziraphale retorts triumphantly, turning back to face the village and leaning against the rather flimsy horizontal slats beside Anthony.

‘That’s only because they’d never be able to control one if they did. The dragons they have down there are pitiful, take it from me.’

‘Oh and you’d know, because you’ve actually seen one, have you?’

‘Of course I have,’ Anthony replies, his tone making it impossible for Aziraphale to tell whether or not he’s joking.

‘You are ridiculous,’ says Aziraphale primly.

‘You’re just getting that now?’ Anthony flashes a roguish grin.

‘You can’t _really_ have seen a dragon.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Aziraphale insists. Anthony raises his eyebrows, lips still twisted into a playful smirk. ‘I’m _sure_. You’re impossible.’

‘Ridiculous _and_ impossible; I’m enjoying this,’ and, thinks Anthony, he really, genuinely is. They haven’t had a conversation this comfortable for this long in – months.

‘ _Stop it_ ,’ Aziraphale pleads, ‘it’s not funny.’

‘I beg to differ, angel.’

‘Would you stop calling me that?’

‘I haven’t called you that in ages.’

‘How about we keep it that way, _my dear_?’

‘Now see, I was just paying you back for this morning, but now you’ve gone and added another one to the list, so I’m going to have to call you angel again, and then you’ll call me dear…You’ve started a vicious cycle, here. Angel.’

‘That’s two angels in one go. This could go downhill very fast.’

‘Only one of those counted and you know it.’

‘You’re keeping score, now?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘If I was I’d definitely be in the lead,’ Aziraphale claims, crossing his legs at the ankle and putting more of his weight on the fence, which creaks ominously.

‘You realise that’s not a good thing here, right? The more you call me dear, the more I get to call you angel. You really can’t win.’ Anthony’s gloved hand is braced against the wooden bar barely an inch from Aziraphale’s. Is it his imagination, or does Aziraphale move his ever so slightly to the left, so that their little fingers are brushing? For the first time he is grateful for the frigid temperature meaning that his cheeks are already flushed.

‘In which case, neither can you,’ Aziraphale reasons, apparently oblivious to the effect the miniscule point of almost-contact is having on his friend. (He isn’t, not at all. He’s rather enjoying it, actually.)

‘I think you underestimate my many natural talents,’ Anthony is impressed by how steady his voice sounds. He thinks his hand might be frozen to the fence. In any case, he seems incapable of moving it.

‘Your natural talents being to call me names?’

‘Among other things,’ Anthony replies cryptically, and okay, Aziraphale is _definitely_ doing that on purpose. It’s the tiniest of movements, but he is certain that Aziraphale’s little finger is brushing against his, and – he actually wishes that neither of them were wearing gloves.

‘What sort of other things?’ Aziraphale turns his head slightly away from the view of the village to meet Anthony’s gaze boldly. Anthony’s bright golden eyes dart between their hands – little fingers now linked together – and Aziraphale’s face. He swallows.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he manages. It does not sound nearly as challenging as he means it to.

‘What if I would?’ Aziraphale’s eyes are very blue, and very wide. Anthony wonders if it’s the stark white blankness of the snow that brings the colour out, or if he really has never noticed it properly before. Anthony’s heartbeat seems to have doubled. His hands are damp with either snow or sweat, he can’t tell which. He tries to find a way to reply which will bring them back to more neutral territory, but it is much too late for that.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he asks in a low voice. He moves ever so slightly so that his body is angled towards Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale could say something scathing or witty in response. He decides not to. He’s not sure he’d be capable right now, not when his hyper-awareness of Anthony’s increasing proximity is making it difficult to breathe properly. All he says instead is, ‘Yes.’

Anthony is closer now. He has to be certain though. They both have to be _absolutely_ certain.

‘Your parents –’

‘ _Fuck_ my parents,’ Aziraphale exclaims vehemently, throwing all caution to the winds and grabbing Anthony’s hand, pulling him forwards – and with a loud _crack_ of snapping wood and a windmill of flailing arms, tumbling spectacularly backwards into the foot-deep snow.

Anthony doubles over from laughing so hard, one hand clutching his side and the other holding onto the fence post for support. His eyes are quickly streaming from a combination of cold and mirth, and Aziraphale’s indignant glowering only serves to make him laugh harder.

‘Are you done?’ demands Aziraphale, pushing himself half into a sitting position and blowing snow out of his eyes. ‘That _hurt_ ,’

‘Almost,’ Anthony promises, only to collapse into another fit of giggles, shaking his head at the sight of Aziraphale, soaking wet and covered in snow, still attempting to look threatening from his position on the ground.

‘You can finish laughing after you help me up,’ Aziraphale says, holding out a hand which Anthony – foolishly, perhaps, but he is not really paying attention – takes. Two seconds later he is flat on his face beside Aziraphale, spitting snow out of his mouth and shaking it from his hair where it sticks out from beneath his hat.

‘You bastard,’ he accuses, though he makes no attempt to stand up, only shifts to mimic Aziraphale’s half-upright posture and pointlessly brushes snow from the front of his robes.

‘You were asking for it.’

‘You’re the one who broke the fence.’

‘It was already broken.’

‘Only after you sat on it.’

They look at each other, struggling to keep straight faces for all of about a second, and then burst into laughter once again.

‘You know,’ gasps Anthony, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.’

‘ _That’s_ the part you’re going to focus on?’

‘It’s not the part I’d _like_ to focus on.’

‘And which part would that be?’

Anthony raises his eyebrows, seizes Aziraphale’s scarf, and yanks him forwards into a clumsy kiss. 

‘Well,’ says Aziraphale when they break apart, his hair delightfully dishevelled and his cheeks flaring brighter than ever. ‘That clears that up, then.’

‘Do you ever _shut up_?’ demands Anthony, whose own cheeks feel hot enough to melt the snow for miles around. He is grinning, though, and so is Aziraphale.

‘Depends on the motivation.’

‘I’ll give you _motivation_ ,’ Anthony growls, pushing Aziraphale back into the snow and kissing him again. Scarves, hats, gloves and several layers of additional clothing beneath tangled cloaks and robes are not really conducive to making out effectively. Neither is being almost completely numb from the cold, and soaking wet to boot.

They manage pretty well anyway.

Anthony half-heartedly tries to push Aziraphale back against the snow, and Aziraphale half-heartedly tries to push back, so they more or less stay in the same place. Their lips are numb and neither of them can stop grinning; they keep having to pull away and try not to laugh. Aziraphale has one hand braced against the ground and one tucked under the brim of Anthony’s hat, buried in his hair. Anthony can feel the thick fabric scratching at his scalp, and a single trickle of icy water running down his neck from where the snow is melting. He tries to slip one hand around Aziraphale’s back and ends up getting tangled in his cloak, which only makes them laugh harder, until all they are doing is resting their foreheads together and shaking with silent giggles, occasionally trying to speak and then giving up. Aziraphale leans up and kisses Anthony’s nose; Anthony kisses Aziraphale’s chin, and each point of contact retains a tiny glimmer of warmth that spreads outwards and sends simultaneous shivers down their spines.

‘I’m soaked,’ whispers Aziraphale after what feels like a very long time, when they have slowed and calmed down so they are no longer grinning uncontrollably, but moving as languidly as possible, scarcely breaking contact at all.

‘That’s what – _Aziraphale_ –’ Anthony gasps as Aziraphale gently pulls his scarf down out of the way to leave a trail of kisses along his exposed neck. ‘What you get for – _seriously_ –’

‘Do you want me to stop?’ Aziraphale murmurs, following the line back up again until he reaches Anthony’s jawline, where he pauses but doesn’t move away, so Anthony can still feel his warm breath thawing the frozen skin just below his ear. Anthony closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, then still can’t bring himself to move, or to reply, or to do anything other than focus on every single point of contact between the two of them, extra layers be damned. Aziraphale has hooked his right leg around Anthony’s left; the hand previously occupied pulling his scarf away is now resting on the back of his neck, and every breath brings their torsos briefly further together and then apart again.

They are freezing. They are soaked to the skin. Aziraphale’s elbow is aching from the effort of holding himself upright and Anthony’s knees are hurting.

They stay like that for at least another minute.

‘We should move,’ says Aziraphale at last, pressing another kiss to Anthony’s jaw and letting the contact linger for several seconds.

‘Let’s not,’ Anthony replies, ‘I like it here.’ He tucks his chin and turns his head so he can kiss Aziraphale’s mouth again, parting his lips slightly and pushing his tongue against Aziraphale’s, savouring every moment of the soft returning pressure, half afraid he will never get another chance. Eventually, Aziraphale is the one to pull away.

‘My arm hurts,’ he says, although he is as reluctant as Anthony to stand up, because standing up means breaking apart, and breaking apart might mean not coming together again, once they have both returned to their senses. He tries to find any faint spark of regret or concern for what his family might say, but there is none, not yet. The real worry will come later. He tells himself they will deal with it – they will manage, somehow, and hopes this isn’t just wishful thinking.

‘So do my legs,’ Anthony admits grudgingly, after a long silence.

‘And I’m cold.’

‘I did warn you,’ Anthony flashes another brief smile. His eyes look like liquid gold.

‘I think my feet might be turning into ice blocks.’

‘That settles it, then. How will you walk back to the castle like that? We’ll _have_ to stay here.’

‘Stop it,’ says Aziraphale, pushing him gently in rebuke.

‘Stop what?’

‘Tempting me into staying,’

‘Well if it’s _working_ …’

‘It’s not.’

‘It seems to be. We haven’t moved yet, have we?’ Aziraphale sighs. He really does not want to move. But he _is_ freezing… ‘Oh, alright,’ says Anthony, pulling back slowly. ‘Have it your way.’ He drags himself with obvious difficulty to his feet, and then hauls Aziraphale up too. Suddenly they are both much colder – _painfully_ cold, and Aziraphale’s teeth begin to chatter. He does not let go of Anthony’s hand.

‘Castle?’ Aziraphale prompts, when Anthony shows no sign of moving any further.

‘Three Broomsticks first,’ Anthony amends, biting the words out with difficulty; his jaw feels frozen solid. ‘Butterbeer. We’ll take it with us.’

‘Room of Requirement?’ Aziraphale suggests, with a pang of grief as he remembers just who introduced them to the Room to begin with, back when they were still first years desperately trying to avoid Anthony’s cousins – among others. In all the celebrations a lot of people seem to have forgotten that You Know Who’s downfall came with a cost; every time it happens to Aziraphale he feels a fresh surge of guilt. He pushes the thought from his mind. Anthony nods, and doesn’t question his friend’s sombre expression.

00000

The Room is much the same as it has been every time they have entered it for the last four years. It looks something like an old and well used library, which Anthony thinks must be Aziraphale’s influence. Three walls are lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. The fourth bears enormous Quidditch posters flanking a large, welcoming fireplace which is right now filled by crackling orange flames. There are two armchairs and a sofa wide enough for them both to lie on side by side arranged in front of the fire, around a worn rug depicting the Gryffindor crest in faded red and gold.

Nothing in the room is grand or new. None of it looks particularly impressive. Anthony privately suspects that Aziraphale has had much more of an effect on what the Room prepares for them than he does, because Aziraphale has a much clearer idea of what he wants. Anthony doesn’t care much about the surroundings. All he was thinking about the first time they came here was somewhere to _get away_ ; somewhere safe and out of reach of fellow students, most specifically Hastur and Ligur. The rest was detail. The Room has never let them down them yet; they have never been disturbed, and they have always been comfortable. The only thing the Room ever fails to provide is food.

The second the door closes behind them Anthony breathes an enormous sigh of relief and Aziraphale collapses onto the sofa with his eyes closed. Anthony takes off his cloak, hat, scarf and gloves and throws them onto one of the vacant armchairs before sinking down beside Aziraphale with an exhausted groan.

‘You’d warm up faster if you weren’t in wet clothes,’ he says absently. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and Anthony instantly blushes scarlet. ‘I didn’t mean it like that!’ he insists, ‘I just meant – you – I mean – _stop looking at me like that_!’

‘You sort of walked into that one,’ says Aziraphale, smirking as he pulls off his gloves and throws them in the general direction of the armchair where Anthony deposited his.

‘Maybe you just have a filthy mind.’

‘ _I_ have a filthy mind?’ Aziraphale repeats incredulously as he unwinds his scarf, ‘You’re the one who was suggesting I take my clothes off.’

‘That’s not what I said!’

‘I distinctly remember you saying I’d feel better if I wasn’t wearing my clothes.’

‘Your _wet_ clothes,’ Anthony clarifies, mortified.

‘ _All_ my clothes are wet.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Anthony demands, jumping onto the change of subject as soon as it becomes available, ‘I _told_ you it was snowing, and _you_ went and broke the fence.’

‘You weren’t objecting much at the time,’ Aziraphale finally stands to remove his cloak, slings it over the armchair with the rest of their sopping outer clothes, and flops back to lay lengthways on the sofa with his feet resting on Anthony’s legs.

‘If I remember rightly I definitely did object, several times, to going out in the middle of a blizzard.’ Anthony is tempted to push Aziraphale’s feet away just for the sake of being spiteful, but he resists the urge and settles for simply glaring instead.

‘Oh, all right,’ Aziraphale relents unusually quickly, ‘will it make you feel better if I kiss you again?’

‘It might help,’ Anthony allows, mock-reluctantly.

‘Well, as long as it can’t hurt,’ Aziraphale – who as it turns out has quite a devilish smirk when he decides to make use of it – uses the back of the sofa as leverage to pull himself upright again. He kneels on the cushion next to Anthony and pauses, teasing, before leaning in to press his lips softly against Anthony’s. ‘Well?’ he asks, bringing his hands up to cup Anthony’s jaw, ‘is this helping?’

‘It’s a start,’ Anthony replies, smiling once more as he returns the kiss and trailing his hand up Aziraphale’s side, ‘keep trying, you’re bound to get there eventually.’

Aziraphale stifles a laugh and manages to just grin instead as he takes his time kissing Anthony, trying to memorise the taste of his lips and the scent of his hair. He smells of snow and cinnamon, tastes like coffee and sugar; his hair is still damp from the snow but his skin is already warm again and he knows just _exactly_ what to do with his tongue as his hands run once more along Aziraphale’s ribcage –

‘ _Stop it_ ,’ Aziraphale exclaims suddenly, squirming in not-quite-discomfort and pushing Anthony’s hands away, ‘that _tickles_.’

‘ _Does_ it now?’ Anthony grins wickedly and Aziraphale realises abruptly that he _really_ should not have said that. Anthony pushes back and dances his fingers up Aziraphale’s sides again while Aziraphale wriggles and tries not to laugh.

‘Stop – Anthony, _stop it_ , that’s not fair –’

‘Consider it payback.’

‘Alright – okay!’ he gasps desperately, ‘you’ve made your – _Anthony_! You’ve made your point – stop, I’m going to fall off –’

Aziraphale lunges as soon as Anthony relents, pushing his friend back against the sofa and kissing him so determinedly that Anthony practically melts in his arms. By the time they break apart again they are both completely breathless. Anthony’s pupils are blown wide, glittering darkly in the light of the fire; Aziraphale is in much the same state, his eyes looking a deeper blue than ever.

‘I should tickle you more often if that’s what I get for it,’ says Anthony eventually, peering up at Aziraphale’s face with a look almost of wonder on his own. Aziraphale huffs with sardonic amusement and rolls over to the side, settling so that he is laid stretched out beside Anthony with his head on his friend’s shoulder.

‘If I get to do that every time you tickle me, I suppose I can learn to live with it,’ he replies with a contented and slightly playful smile. Anthony automatically moves his right arm to wrap around Aziraphale, bringing his left up to tuck his hand behind his head. They are silent for a long time, simply basking in the firelight and each other’s’ company, their breathing deep and completely in sync. Anthony’s hand moves absent-mindedly to stroke Aziraphale’s elbow and Aziraphale closes his eyes, soothed by the warmth and the motion of Anthony’s chest beneath his head.

As the excitement and giddy euphoria drains away, Aziraphale beings to doze. Anthony begins to think, and does not like where his musings lead him. For the first time he starts to really consider the long term consequences of what they are doing. He thinks of how difficult it was with not only their families, but the other students at Hogwarts when they first became friends. He thinks of how much more difficult _this_ will be, and wonders if Aziraphale has realised – if he knows and truly doesn’t care, or if it simply hasn’t occurred to him yet.

‘It can,’ he says suddenly, after almost half an hour of silence.

‘What?’ Aziraphale raises his head, half asleep, and looks into Anthony’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You said “as long as it can’t hurt”. This – us. It can.’ His chest aches to say it, but he has to.

‘We’ll figure it out,’ Aziraphale promises softly, with a confidence he does not entirely feel.

‘If our parents –’

‘If you don’t want them to know, we won’t tell them.’

‘And if they find out anyway?’ Anthony challenges.

‘They already know we’re friends, they’ll deal with it.’ Aziraphale hopes against all possible hope that he is right. He can’t pretend not to feel afraid or guilty, and if Anthony weren’t the one voicing doubts then he might well be doing so in his place, but he also knows that he made the decision a long time ago not to follow what his family wanted anymore. He would follow what _he_ wanted, and what he wants is this. ‘Unless you don’t want to do this?’ he adds, just to be sure. ‘We can stop. We – we’ll pretend it never happened.’

‘No,’ Anthony replies immediately, ‘I don’t…I just…I don’t know. I don’t want to stop. I just don’t know how we’re going to continue.’

‘We’ll manage,’ Aziraphale says. ‘I don’t know how, but we will.’

‘As long as you’re sure,’

‘I’m sure if you are. We’ll think of something. And even if they do find out before we want them to – we just lived through a war. Worse things have happened.’ He rests his head back on Anthony’s shoulder and closes his eyes again. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’


End file.
